


to find a family

by ghostbandaids



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anyways, BAMF Toby Smith | Tubbo, Dadza, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Family Bonding, Family Dynamics, Fever, Fluff, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, IRL Fic, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Malnutrition, Minor Injuries, Running Away, Sickfic, Tommy is, he's a gang member, plus tubbo, sbi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 09:54:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28349469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostbandaids/pseuds/ghostbandaids
Summary: Tommy was done with his parents using him, so he ran away.It turned out that living alone was a little lonelier than he’d expected and a lot harder.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Comments: 168
Kudos: 2595
Collections: Best of Hurt/Comfort, Completed stories I've read, MCYT Fic Rec, Tommy and Tubbo Friendship Supremacy





	to find a family

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Enough](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27369619) by [piteouspeculiarity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/piteouspeculiarity/pseuds/piteouspeculiarity). 



> this fic will be removed if ccs ever express discomfort with this type of work, especially because this in no way reflects what I believe tommy's parents are like in real life
> 
> CW: child-abuse (mostly verbal/emotion, tommy is hit once), mild injury, disordered eating 
> 
> I intended this as a vent fic for myself since family stuff always gets hard around the holidays (it has a happy ending, don't worry!!) but I hope you like it! I was inspired after reading 'Enough' by piteouspeculiarity which is an amazing fic that you should check out!
> 
> also I wanted to write a tubbo that was a little less sweet than he's usually depicted.

Tommy wasn’t sure what caused him to snap in the end. 

It wasn’t as if his parents went from asking what kind of cereal he wanted to asking him to pay the next bill or credit card charge -- no, it was much more gradual. 

They hadn’t been very supportive of his streaming in the first place, making him use their family computer and webcam as a setup, telling him that he had to focus on the more practical aspects of life and school. When he amassed a small fanbase, they finally gave in and bought him a new computer and camera system to use. 

And when he noticed that there were people that genuinely enjoyed the videos he made, that they sometimes donated when he was streaming, his mom and dad were the first people that he told. Of course he told them. They were his parents.

They had looked so happy for him, their eyes so full of pride. He thought later that he must have seen it wrong. Maybe they were happy, but it was only out of greed.

That was when they started to encourage his streaming. He was thrilled; they’d never taken an interest in it before. They joined his exponentially-growing fanbase.

_ 10,000 subs. _

_ 25,000 subs. _

_ 50,000 subs. _

When his first Youtube paycheck came in, he took them out to celebrate. A nice place, with waiters who poured the wine from above their heads and candles that flickered softly. His dad called him ‘Big Man’ and laughed boisterously. Tommy told them to order whatever they wanted, as much as they wanted. His mom gave him a sip of her drink.

It was bitter on his tongue, but he managed to convince himself that it tasted like celebration. 

They drove home that night and he sang along with the radio at the top of his lungs, never once worrying that he was being too loud, too annoying. He was Tommyinnit after all, the best streamer around. And his parents were proud of him. 

_ 100,000 subs. _

It all went downhill after that night at the restaurant.

At first, it was small things, barely more than what he would have spent willingly.

“Tommy, I know that you usually take us out to eat when your check comes in, but your father and I have been looking at a new TV…” his mother would say. And he -- being Tommyinnit, the streamer who loved women, especially, he told himself, his mom -- would buy the things they needed: the TV, a new sound system, the chair that needed replacing in the living room.

And she would say, “Oh Tommy, thank you so much for the gift. We’re so lucky to have such a generous son.” He would smile at her; he knew that he was doing his job as a man of the family. Sometimes he thought about the fact that the only time a ‘gift’ had been his idea was that first night, with the wine and the steaks and prestige. 

He tried to ignore that because he didn’t like how it made him feel about his parents. He pushed down the uneasy feeling that he got with each new request. No one would ever say that Tommyinnit was a selfish son. 

_ 200,000 subs. _

His father told him they were planning on getting a new car.

“Cool!” he said, confused as to why the purchase would concern him. “Is it a gift for me?” He’d just turned sixteen and was learning to drive, only occasionally terrorizing neighborhood mailboxes, pets, and children.

“No,” his dad said, smiling. “It’s a gift for us! Did you look at your statement this month?”

And that was how Tommy bought his parents a car -- auto-lane keeping, ambient lighting, 4-seater -- without really saying yes. He sat in the back seat as they drove it off the lot, his head propped in his hands. When his mom looked back, he forced a smile onto his face and the smell of new factory-leather invaded his mouth and nose. 

“Do you like it?” she asked. 

“Yes,” he said. It was a nice car after all. Maybe it was the start-stop of the traffic on the way home, but thinking about where it had come from made him nauseous. 

His dad worked a management job in a sleek, tall skyscraper in the center of the city, surrounded by people who answered to him. His mother was an accountant for a top firm, with a private office that looked over the skyline. Surely, his parents didn’t need to use his money to buy a car. 

That night at the table in the kitchen, he told his parents that he wanted the money he was making to go into an account separate from theirs. He said that it would be easier for him to see how much he was saving for university that way -- and harder for them to justify their ever-growing withdrawals, but he wasn’t going to tell them that part. 

His dad frowned and glanced at his mom. She nodded. They went to the bank the next day and set up a custodial account just for him, one connected to his phone. It was a little embarrassing, how often he checked the balance. Each day the numbers went without changing, he breathed a sigh of relief. 

Then there was a period of peace in his life, interspersed with streams, editing, and the requests for small gifts that he’d long ago grown used to. He didn’t mind. He started to make friends, streamers that would make videos with him and have conversations about things he cared about. 

That was when he learned the difference between his parents and his friends. They almost seemed to ask about the same things -- streaming, school. While his parents only asked about his streaming to make sure he was still succeeding and school to make sure they weren’t wasting time, his friends wanted to know how he was doing, whether he liked it or not. 

They were older than him, and better role models than he’d had in a long time. Wilbur played him songs when he couldn’t sleep and talked to him about what he wanted to do when he got older. Phil, who had more experience with streaming, gave him tips on the fans and the technology, and on navigating the role of a ‘public figure.’ He’d practically crowed when Phil called him that. And Technoblade -- well, he wasn’t sure if Techno liked him or tolerated him -- but they streamed together often and Tommy enjoyed his acerbic wit and history lessons more than he would admit.

To be honest, he wasn’t sure if any of them really liked him back. But he felt happy when he was talking to them and so he wasn’t planning on stopping unless they told him to. Somewhere along the line, he’d started to think of them as a small family, separate from his parents. The kind that had inside jokes and knew each other’s likes and dislikes and held regular movie nights.

He sometimes wondered if they wanted gifts like his mom and dad did. He wasn’t sure, so he didn’t offer. And they didn’t ask. He would mail them things when he thought of them-- a new guitar pick for Wilbur, a book on war strategy for Techno -- but it was much better when he chose what to give them. It felt like he had control when it was his decision.

Compared to the loud laughter and talking that he joined in on during streaming and recording, his own house seemed to grow quieter and bigger. Once, he waited until a night when his parents had nothing planned and asked them if they wanted to watch a movie with him. They said no. He didn’t ask again. They must have been busy with work.

_ 500,000 subs. _

He’d just finished saying goodbye to the chat and turned off his music one night when he glanced at his phone and saw a text from his mom, saying that they were going to have a family meeting in the dining room when he was done. 

He padded down the stairs and pulled a chair out from the table, waiting for them to come in. No one ate together anymore and the room seemed lonely, the surfaces covered in dust. He drew a music disk in the dust and hummed a song to himself, one that reminded him of his friends. 

They walked in together, a unified front, and sat across from him. 

“Tommy,” his mother said. “We’ve noticed that lately, your streaming has started to become a disturbance in this house.” She looked annoyed. They’d never said anything about being annoyed by him before.

“But we know that your viewers are expecting a certain amount of energy,” she continued. It was true; he was loud and sometimes obnoxious, and that was the way he’d always been. So why did it hurt to hear her say it?

“We’re willing to make a compromise,” his father cut in. 

Tommy told himself that this was only fair, that he would listen to their proposal and not get mad. 

“If you want to keep streaming under our roof, we want you to start paying some of the bills around here.”

His mouth dropped open involuntarily. What kind of parents made their child pay the bills?

“And what if that’s something I don’t think you should ask of me?”

“Then I suppose you should find another place to stream. This is our home too, you know.” It sounded like a threat. He mused absentmindedly on their usage of the word ‘home.’ Was it a home? More like a lonely house that he lived in.

He authorized transfers from his bank account for electric and water bills the next day, house payments a week later when they once again pulled him into the dining room.

He loved his parents but it felt so strange to be paying for everything, watching his bank account funds stay the same or dip down as his subscribers and parents’ purchases increased. 

If his friends noticed that he’d gotten quieter during streams, they didn’t say anything. He could have talked to them about the problem. He didn’t want to seem selfish though. He couldn’t stop thinking about how annoying he was, wondering how he hadn’t realized it before. 

_ 1 million subs. _

Then his mom told him that they were going to use his paycheck to pay for a vacation, one that he wasn’t invited on.

“Just me and your father, sweetie. Doesn’t that sound nice?” 

That was when it hit him that they didn’t really care about him at all. It was never ‘how are you, Tommy?’ and always, ‘how many subscribers, how many views, how much did you make?’ And all of the money that he was giving them didn’t make them like him more, it only made them want it more. Not him. Money. 

“I don’t think that you should use my money to pay for things like this,” he said quietly. 

“Tommy,” his mother sounded disappointed and he almost took it back. Almost.

“I don’t see why you can’t just pay for it with your own. Or at least take me along,” he continued. “And don’t tell me you can’t afford it, you just don’t want to spend your own money.”

He froze, blood rushing to his head. He’d never spoken to them like that before. And what he’d said -- did he believe it? Kind of. But they were his parents and they had always supported him so maybe he was being unreasonable. 

He was about to apologize when he felt something hit his face and fell to the ground with the force of it. He sat still for a moment, stunned, before reaching up to feel the heat of his tender cheek.

His father stood above him with an extended hand.

His mother stared at him with a look of indifference.

“Don’t you ever speak to your mother like that again, do you hear me?’ his dad said in a voice that was low and dangerous. “This is our house, and your money comes from our permission to stream.”

Tommy stared at them in disbelief. They were his parents, and they loved him. Didn’t they?

He pushed himself up and took a step backward, not breaking eye contact. And then he was turning around and running up to his room, locking the door. 

He took a huge heaving breath and told himself that Tommyinnit didn’t cry but it was no use. He didn’t know how long he stayed that way, splayed out on the floor and sobbing, but by the time he stopped it was dark and he was exhausted. 

His parents left in two days and wouldn’t be back for a week. He didn’t think it would happen again -- them hitting him -- but he told himself that good parents didn’t hit their children. He was annoying and loud though so maybe he wasn’t a good child. Maybe he deserved it. 

He paid for the vacation, sighed as he watched the money disappear from his account. 

He touched his cheek where it still stung and was relieved to see that it was only faintly red when he looked in the mirror. He would still be able to stream. 

Maybe that was the breaking point in the end, being hit by his father. There were things that could have hurt him much worse physically -- his cheek wasn’t even that bad -- but it made him feel worthless. Parents, he told himself, were supposed to love their children. Not hurt them.

He started to pack his belongings into a couple of duffel bags and a suitcase, hesitating with each shirt that he folded and picture he stacked. Was he wrong to want to leave? Was he selfish?

No, he told himself. His face still hurt.

He drove them to the airport, the silence of the car ride tense and irritated. They hadn’t had a conversation since the night of the argument and Tommy wasn’t about to start one now. He waved at them when he dropped them off at the security line and thought distantly that maybe he wouldn’t see them for a long time. Or maybe he would change his mind and come home before they did.

The radio played one of his favorite songs on the way home but he didn’t sing along. 

That night, he asked Wilbur to play the guitar for him. There wasn’t anything wrong, he explained, just that his parents were gone and the house felt too empty, that he wanted to hear another voice. 

Wilbur asked if he was lonely. Tommy said yes. He didn’t say anything about the fact that it wasn’t his parents that he missed, that he’d been lonely for a long time. He fell asleep to the gentle strumming of steel strings and Wilbur’s soft voice. 

Phil messaged him to ask if he wanted to meet up with Techno and Wilbur sometime. Not too soon, he said, but they talked so much -- wouldn’t it be nice to do it in person? He said yes, but not too soon. He used the excuse that his parents would need some convincing, thinking about how if this plan worked, he wouldn’t have to listen to his parents anymore. 

The most important part of the plan was the first part: Tommy had to find a place to live. He was 17 now, his birthday an afterthought to whatever subscriber threshold he’d reached that month. That meant that he was still a minor, a liability to the landlords of all the city apartments. 

It didn’t stop him from looking up the owners of all the reputable apartment complexes in the city and calling them. His conversations tended to go like this:

“Hullo, I’m looking to rent a flat.”

“We have a couple of units available if you’re willing to answer some preliminary questions.”

“Sure thing, big man.” This was when they tended to notice how young his voice sounded

“Are you a student?”

“Yes.”

“How old are you?”

“17.” 

“Do you have an adult to co-sign?” 

“No.” 

This was when they decided that he was either a runaway or some sort of prank-caller and told him that they didn’t have anything available for him. 

After an hour of rejections, he knew that he had to change tactics. He thought for a second about asking Wilbur for a place to stay, or Phil. But then he thought about having to explain the situation to them, how he was annoying and the whole thing was his fault anyway. So he didn’t ask. 

Instead, he got in the car and backed out of the garage. He drove into the city center and managed to squeeze his car into a spot on the side of the road. 

Once the idea of leaving his house had entered his head, he was desperate to do it, to escape. So what if he had to stay in some shitty apartment because he couldn’t convince any of the nice landlords to trust him? The idea of staying in the house when his parents returned felt more oppressive every day.

He climbed out and walked until he saw a group of people who looked a little worse-for-wear. The homeless type, or maybe the type that kept their stuff somewhere but didn’t return often.

“Hello mates,” he said, trying to sound friendly, making sure that his hands were out of his pockets. They shifted and glared at him.

“If someone was looking for a place to stay that wouldn’t ask many questions, where would you send them?” he asked. He hoped that they wouldn’t beat him up; he’d worn only his jacket and left his phone in the car so there was no point in mugging.

They must have deemed him non-threatening. One of the more-conscious men pointed a loose hand up the street and said, “Big G might give you a place on Brighthawk if you have enough cash.”

“Thanks man.” He smiled nervously. “Where can I find this … Big G?”

“Walk up the street, red door on the left,” the man said, poking at a vein on his forearm.

“Thanks!” Tommy repeated, but the man didn’t reply. Someone had handed him a needle. 

Tommy waved half-heartedly and walked up the street, finding a grimy red door in between equally grimy storefronts just like the man had said. 

He pushed it open with as much confidence as he could, telling himself that there could only be one big man -- he and Big G might have to fight it out for the title. 

Upon being faced with a giant that looked more like a wall than a person, Tommy decided that he would switch tactics from fighting to sweet-talking. It was alright to be the second-biggest-man. Cigarette smoke permeated the room and he tried not to gag. 

The man glanced up at him dismissively but didn’t say anything.

“Big G?”

“Yup,” the brick wall grunted. 

“Nice place you’ve got here. Heard that you’ve got some other equally nice places for rent in Whitehawk?” He let out a nervous, wheezy laugh. 

“Yup,” the man repeated.

“I’d like to rent one.”

“Cash only, it’s a single room,” the man replied. “No kitchen, shared bathroom, you pay for electricity.”

Tommy would take what he could get. 

“How much per month?”

“800 pounds.” It was low, much lower than the nicer apartments had been going for. He told himself that he would use the extra money to buy a microwave and a hotplate or something. 

“Deal.” He shook hands with the man, wincing at the tight grip -- he would wait until he was back in the car to scrub his hand against his jeans. The man wrote down the address on the back of a greasy takeout menu and handed it to him, telling him that a runner would meet him there tomorrow where Tommy would pay the first three months of the apartment. 

He walked back onto the street, his head spinning with the speed in which he’d just rented his first -- and probably illicit -- apartment. 

He wanted the switch to be as seamless as possible so he stopped at a technology store and bought a green screen sheet and a new router. Next was a large Asda where he got a plastic table since he didn’t think he could get his old desk in the car. 

Back at home, he began the process of dragging his things down the stairs and into the backseat and trunk, leaving room for his desk chair since people would be suspicious if it went missing from his videos. 

He streamed for the last time in his room before telling his friends he was too tired to chat and packaging his computer and camera equipment into neat boxes. His room seemed so empty without the wiring. By tomorrow, it would be assembled somewhere else. 

He curled up in bed and wondered, for what felt like the hundredth time, if he was going crazy, if running away was justified. His parents would be back in 3 days and he could still back out. He didn’t plan to though. He set his alarm for six in the morning and tried to fall asleep. 

The house didn’t matter that much to him, he told himself, but the thought of abandoning it stung. And if he cried himself to sleep, no one was around to hear it.

The next morning, he stopped at the bank with all the necessary information needed to withdraw 2,400 pounds. Even with his identification and code, they looked at him suspiciously. He hoped that they would forget about him; he would need to withdraw a much larger sum than that before the week was over.

After getting lost a couple of times and finally ending up in the parking lot of a sketchy neighborhood, Tommy saw a scruffy teenager leaned against the wall waiting for him. He ambled over when he saw Tommy standing outside the car.

“You the one renting the room?”

“Yes.”

The boy stuck out his hand and gestured for Tommy to hand over the money, spinning a key ring around his fingers. There was no contract. He didn’t even get to look at the flat beforehand, though at this point, his expectations for it were quite low. 

He handed the fat envelope over and the boy grinned and tossed him the keys. 

“Whatever you do,” he said, “Don’t make noise complaints on the neighbors. People do what they gotta do.” In what sounded like the vicinity of the parking lot, a gunshot rang out, punctuating his sentence. 

“Will you help me move my stuff up?” Tommy asked. 

“Do I look like a hired hand?” the boy scoffed. Tommy glanced at the envelope he was to deliver to the boss. 

“A bit, yeah.” He laughed. “I’ll pay you for it if you want.”

The boy tried to act reluctant, but Tommy could tell that he was itching for money, probably carrying it around all day but barely given enough to survive.

“Name’s Tubbo,” the boy muttered as Tommy opened the trunk of the car. “And you’re going to want to lock that while we’re carrying stuff or you won’t have to make more than one trip.”

“Noted,” Tommy said, handing Tubbo a box of clothes. “Lead away.” He hefted a box of camera and microphone rigging under his arm before locking the car behind him and smiling at Tubbo. 

Tubbo showed him that the keyring had two keys: one for the outside door and one for his room. Inside, a yellow light glowed faintly, obviously struggling to stay on as it constantly flickered off and on. His flat was on the third floor. 

When he pushed open the door, he was faced with a tiny, empty room. No bed, a tiny window, a small counter and sink. He’d brought his sheets to put onto whatever cot he was faced with so he resolved to make a nest on the floor until he bought an air mattress. 

The carpet was ominously varied in its coloration, with a couple spots near the door in particular stained a reddish brown. He told himself that it was water damage. 

Tubbo helped him carry the boxes up, silent at first. It took nearly an hour, and by the end of it, Tommy had started to like him. 

“No hands!” Tubbo yelled, running down the hall with a package balanced precariously on his head. Tommy would have joined in if he hadn’t been carrying his computer, but he laughed and tried to show Tubbo up on his next trip by carrying four boxes of clothing and books at once while going up the stairs. He ended up dropping them. Tubbo didn’t seem to mind the extra time they spent picking them up. 

They carried the desk and chair up last, and Tubbo left £80 richer, dragging his feet. 

“Tell Big G hi for me!” Tommy yelled at his retreating figure.

“Will do,” Tubbo replied. “Try not to get shot. Maybe I’ll come check on you sometime.” Tommy smiled. It seemed he’d made a friend.

He spent the next couple of hours tacking up the green screen and setting up his equipment, making sure that his camera angles were as similar as he could get them before he started his stream. He said that he wanted his videos to look more professional so he’d switched up his background. No one suspected a thing. 

_ 2 million subs.  _

Tomorrow, he would return the car, find a bed and a microwave, withdraw funds for the next couple of months. Tonight, he would sleep in a pile of blankets on the hard floor, his stomach aching with the fact that he’d forgotten to bring food for meals. He knew that he would be fine. He knew it. 

Above him, a man yelled at a woman and she yelled back. On the other side of the wall, a baby cried. He was loud and annoying, he told himself, so he would fit right in. They wouldn’t even complain about the noise like his parents did. 

The floor was hard, cold, and unwelcoming. He laid awake for most of the night, tensing each time footsteps passed his door. 

He had two days. 

“You want to withdraw how much?” the lady at the desk of the bank asked with an incredulous expression. At least he was tall -- being a short 17 year old would have made it much worse. Still, a kid trying to withdraw 6,500 pounds in one go was unusual. 

Tommy showed his ID, told her it was a custodial account that he had the rights to withdraw from. He knew that asking for much higher would have gotten reports written up that he wanted to avoid. He watched her think about it for a minute, wondering if she should ask more questions. Maybe if her wage had been higher, she would have. 

He left the bank with a thick envelope in his hand. 

It would be enough to work with for a while. He could get a job after he’d spent it, just until he turned 18 and was free to his own money and devices. 

He knew that today was the last day to use his credit card so he stopped at a secondhand furniture shop and found a microwave and hotplate, an air mattress that he hoped was free of holes, and a couple of plates and bowls and utensils. And a pot for cooking. Walking out with his bags, he saw a used bike leaned against the wall. He went back in and bought that too, fighting with it in order to push it into the backseat. 

Next was the Tesco where he stared at the towering shelves of food for more than a couple of minutes. He was used to scavenging for leftovers in the fridge or getting takeout and didn’t usually cook for himself. Plus, he didn’t have room for a fridge at all so it had to be non-perishable. He settled for a large bag of beans and one of rice, trying to be practical. People would probably notice if he got scurvy and lost his teeth so he grabbed a bag of oranges before stacking an armful of canned soups and fruits into the cart. Then he grabbed some granola bars and oatmeal for breakfast, vitamins and a first aid kit just in case. 

He would be fine, he told himself as he methodically scanned the items at the self-checkout. He knew what he was doing, how to cook and how to provide for himself. He could do it. The food was more expensive than he expected but that was okay.

He carried it up in a couple of trips, wishing that Tubbo would show up to help again. With the bed blown up -- he’d bought some gaffer tape for it just in case which he used to block some suspicious-looking seams -- and the bike against the wall out of the camera’s view, the microwave and hotplate balanced on the counter, the room was cramped and full.

“It’s home,” he said and he smiled. It looked a little trashy, but everything here was his. He’d earned it.

With one of the knives he’d just bought, he pried up a small corner of carpet behind the door and pushed the envelope of money into it. He got the feeling that his neighbors might not be the most trustworthy people, though he was living in the building too and wasn’t sure what that made him. 

He drove the empty car to the airport and paid for parking in a lot, texting his parents that he had school when their flight was scheduled to land so he’d left it there for them. 

Looking up cab companies in the area, he clicked the one at the top of the listings and called a taxi to take him back to his flat -- home, he repeated in his head but the word wouldn’t quite stick. The driver tried to make meaningless conversation, but all Tommy could do was stare at his phone and wait for a response. They hadn’t texted him once while they’d been gone to whatever tropical paradise he’d paid for. Hawaii, maybe?

No pictures, no communication or a call to see if he was alright. It was as if he’d already moved out. And that was alright with him, wasn’t it? His eyes stung with tears.

_ Okay, _ his mother’s text read.  _ Did you already pay for it?” _

_ yes _ , he typed with numb fingers.

_ Good _ , she responded. And that was that. No ‘see you soon!’ which was just as well because she wouldn’t see him soon at all. 

The car lurched to a stop. Tommy tipped the driver and watched the lights of the car recede into the night. His breath sent puffs of moisture into the air and he hoped that there was some sort of heating system in the building because riding his bike back from the store with a space heater in his lap didn’t sound very appealing.

Then it was time to stream again, and Tommyinnit was the best streamer around. He thought he’d acted normal enough, but Phil called after he’d closed Twitch to ask when his parents were coming home. 

“Why do you ask that?” Tommy replied, trying not to sound too defensive.

“You look tired, Tommy,” Phil sighed. “And I have to be honest and tell you that I don’t think you can go much longer than a week without burning down your house.”

“What a dad,” Tommy sighed. “Don’t worry about me, man. They’re back tomorrow.” Not that it made a difference when he hadn’t talked to his real father since they’d left.

“Now tell me a story or something, I’m bored.” 

He stared up at a water stain on the ceiling while Phil recounted the story of how he had met Kristin which, oddly enough, involved a banana flash mob. He’d been one of the bananas. Kristin’s original date had stormed out of the restaurant because of them. 

It was funny, but he couldn’t bring himself to laugh as hard as he usually did. 

Tomorrow, he would go to his college for his only in-person school day of the week. Tomorrow, his parents would come home and realize he wasn’t going to. He hoped they didn’t call the police. And tomorrow, he would stream. But he always streamed. That wouldn’t change. 

“Goodnight, Dadza,” he said softly. At least he still had his friends. That wouldn’t change either. 

When his phone alarm went off, he dragged himself out of the bed and stumbled into the bathroom across the hall. It was tiny and cramped, barely usable. The lock on the door was weak, so he always used it as quickly as he could; it was rarely clean, and he dreaded the day he forgot to bring a roll of toilet paper or a towel in with him. 

He rode his bike down to the bus stop in a haze with damp hair and brushed teeth, thinking only of his parents in an airplane over the ocean. 

His day passed in the same fog as the morning, numb anticipation in which he waited for a phone call to come through. He would stare up at the clock on the wall and think: they’re landing now, they’re at the baggage claim now, they’re picking up the car now, they’re home. Would they go into his bedroom and see it empty? Would there be an absence without him there, a silence?

He rode the bus home and dumped a can of chili into a pot, staring at it until it started to bubble. The saying was wrong then. 

He checked his phone over and over again to see the same notifications from Twitter and Discord but nothing from his parents. 

It was 10 pm when his mom’s contact finally appeared as an incoming call. They must have been home for almost 6 hours at that point. 

He let it ring until his answering machine was about to pick up -- his finger poised above the picture of his mother’s smiling face -- before he slid his finger across the screen to answer it.

“Where are you?” She sounded very angry but something about the voice coming through the tinny voice speaker made it seem less real. 

“You made it very clear that under your roof, I’d be controlled by you.” Silence. “So now I live under a new one.”

“Thomas Simons, you are seventeen years old -- a child! What makes you think we won’t send the police to find you?” She didn’t seem worried about him or ask why he’d left. She was just mad.

He laid on the air mattress, the phone pressing against his cheek, and listened to her voice as it droned on about responsibility -- his, not hers. He heard a hissing noise beneath him and reached for the tape he’d set on the windowsill for that purpose alone.

“Put me on speakerphone,” he said, interrupting her tirade. 

“Look, I was a burden to you before, right? That or you used it as an excuse to get your bills paid but think about how nice your vacation without me must have been -- I wouldn’t know because you obviously didn’t miss me enough to talk to me during it,” he said bitterly.

They didn’t reply so he kept talking. 

“I know that you’ll be able to afford everything just fine without me, especially with all of the money that I’ve saved you in the last year.”

“Oh Tommy, we miss you so much, we just want you to come home. We don’t care about the money.” Her voice was sickly sweet and he knew she was lying. 

“Come home, son,” his father said. Maybe it would have been effective if he’d said it with emotion. 

“I am home. And don’t try to drag me out of it or you’ll be faced with more legal battle charges than you’re willing to pay.”

His mother sighed, clearly exasperated. 

“If you’re sure that this is what’s best for you.”

His father said, “You’re not going to say anything to your school, are you?”

“No.”

“I suppose this is goodbye then. Consider yourself an independent man, Tommy. You’ll find no home with us.”

“Goodbye.”  _ Good riddance _ . He ended the call, barely holding himself together.

He set a phone timer for 15 minutes and only stopped crying when it went off, his emotions still a turbulent mess. Did they not care about him? Or did they love him enough to let him go?

After washing his face in the sink and patting it dry with a still-damp washcloth, he started his pre-stream music. Only the occasional chat message stating  _ HIGHINNIT _ mentioned anything about his eyes, still slightly red. 

“Cry with joy when your parents came back?” Techno asked him.

“Huh?” he said, jolted away from the mindless task of mining.

“The chat thinks you’re high or something. Your eyes are kinda red.”

“Oh.” He forced a laugh. “Even big men have allergies and shit.” It was a flimsy excuse at best but Techno didn’t ask again. 

Once the stream was over, he boiled some dry beans in his pot, christened Pot, with water and salt. They were awful, possessing a texture that he knew beans weren’t supposed to have. He was hungry though, and couldn’t afford to waste food so he ate them all, chugging water from a mug when he was done. Salty beans: Tommyinnit special.

Before he went to sleep, he used his banking app to freeze his account. The envelope under the carpet was now his sole funding.

After his apparent estrangement from his parents, his life didn’t change as much as he thought it would. The numbers in the account slowly started to increase again and he smiled at the thought that when he was 18, he could use it to pay for school and whatever else he needed. 

He requested address changes for the accounts that he used so that his parents wouldn’t get any of his mail. He hadn’t heard from them since the last call with his mother so they must have been happy to get rid of him.

Some nights, he couldn’t fall asleep at all because of the unfamiliar and sounds of the flats around him. Some mornings, he woke up with dark smudges of purple underneath his eyes. He took to covering them with a stick of concealer. Tommyinnit would never get all of the women with eye bags. 

The golden afternoon sun was coming through his window and flashing in his eyes during a stream when he felt a tap on his shoulder and fell backward in a panic. 

“Agh!” Oh god!” he yelled, looking up at Tubbo who had somehow let himself in the locked door and was bouncing on the air mattress. His heart felt as if it was about to beat out of his chest. 

“Motherinnit!” he yelled theatrically, “No! I can’t vacuum right now! One sec guys, sorry.” He deafened his stream and leaned out of the camera’s view.

“What are you doing here?”

“I told you that I’d come and check on you, didn’t want to get in your little video though.”

“Thanks,” Tommy replied drily. “There’s two hundred thousand people watching it right now and I have to get back on.”

Tubbo looked a bit skeptical. 

“Look, hang out for a couple of minutes. I'm about to end it anyway,” he said. “And don’t make any noise.”

He slumped down into the chair and fixed an embarrassed expression while putting on his headset. 

“I am back!” he yelled, feeling the sensation of eyes burn into the back of his head. It probably looked weird, him talking to his computer, trying to defend himself from the chant repeating ‘mama’s boy’. After terrorizing some other players with a lava bucket, he ended the stream early, begging an assignment that he had due that night. 

“Is everything okay with your mom?” Wilbur asked before he left. “I just saw her hand but it seemed to scare you quite a bit.”

“Oh it’s all good, I just got surprised was all,” he said distractedly, glaring at Tubbo who would end up popping the air mattress if he kept jumping on it. 

“Alright. Have a nice night.”

“You too, Wil.”

“Oh, Phil said something about Techno coming here in a month or something? I don’t know if he’s talked about it to you yet but we should plan something!”

“Sounds good to me!”

He waved and ended the call before swiveling in his chair to face Tubbo. 

“How the fuck did you get in here?”

Tubbo held up a couple of thin metal pieces. “Picked the lock.”

“Maybe I should get a locking door brace or something.”

“Probably.”

“So what’ve you been up to, buddy?”

Tubbo shrugged. “Work. Got shot at a couple of times but I didn’t get shot.”

“Always good, always good,” Tommy said faintly, trying to picture a situation in real life in which he got shot at. He couldn’t. 

“Want to play Minecraft with me?”

“Is that what you were recording earlier?”

“Yeah.”

“Nerd.”

“I’ll take it as a compliment,” Tommy said, opening up his laptop and signing into an older account. It was from when he’d tried to make his dad play. He’d refused, of course. Too busy.

He spent a couple of minutes explaining the game mechanics to Tubbo before logging them into one of his older worlds. He said that they could build Tubbo a house, but the other boy just wandered around aimlessly.

Tommy got distracted by a new redstone build until Tubbo started to insistently tap his shoulder and say his name.

“Tommy. Tommy. Tommy. Look!”

“What?”

“There’s a bee on here! Look at it!” This Tubbo seemed only distantly related to the one that had described being shot at less than an hour earlier. 

Tommy spent the rest of his night helping Tubbo build a greenhouse for the bees before capturing them on leads and bringing them back to the town. 

“It’s like a bee petting zoo!”

“Just don’t try to build one in real life,” Tommy suggested.

“I mean … you could,” Tubbo replied, doing his best to name all of the bees and falling to his death more than once in the process.

“I named one after you, Tommy!”

“You better do one for yourself so that our bee-selves can be friends.”

So they can  _ bee _ friends,” Tubbo laughed. 

“Ha,” Tommy said. “Hilarious.” 

When Tubbo said that he had to leave, Tommy felt a spike of disappointment. 

“Next time, knock, dude. You scared me.”

“Sorry,” Tubbo said, hiding a smile. 

Tommy heard him whisper “Next time,” to himself as he walked out into the darkness of the hallway. 

It was nice to have a friend in real life, even if said friend also seemed to be involved in dangerous gang-related activities. Nobody was perfect.

Tommy went through the motions of sleeping, doing homework, going to class -- still once a week. He bought a better deadlock for when he was leaving the flat or sleeping, but he only used it when he had to. Tubbo’s soft knocking or the clicking of picks in a lock -- he refused to stop despite Tommy’s protests -- was something he looked forward to. It didn’t happen every night though. Tubbo was always off on one job or another. 

Mid stir of Pot, he was startled by a loud pounding on the door. He looked through the peephole and saw Tubbo clutching his arm to his chest, leaning against the wall. 

He swung the door open and led Tubbo inside, watched him practically collapse onto the mattress. He was shaking, his breaths labored with exertion or pain -- maybe both. 

“Tubbo,” he said. “Tubbo, are you okay?.” He tried to touch the boy's shoulder but he flinched away violently.

Tommy settled for crouching down and speaking in soothing tones, waiting for Tubbo to show him his arm. 

“I promise I’m not going to hurt you Tubs, I just want to make sure you’re alright. Please look at me.”

Tubbo’s blue eyes met him from under a curtain of hair and he slowly extended his hand towards Tommy. His jacket had been shredded through straight to his skin, leaving a bleeding gash in his arm.

“Jesus. You could go to the hospital for this.”

“Well I came to you,” Tubbo muttered. “And if you don’t want to deal with me I’ll leave but I can’t go to the damn hospital.” 

“I didn’t mean it like that. It just looks bad,” Tommy said, grabbing his first aid kit and sitting next to Tubbo. “I think that I should clean it but it’s going to hurt.”

“It already does,” Tubbo said, gritting his teeth. “Go for it.”

Tommy dampened a washcloth in the sink and slowly pressed it against the cut, trying to wipe away the dirt and grime. It wasn’t as deep as he’d thought initially but it was long and gaping. Tubbo, trying to be silent, pushed puffs of air through his teeth every time that Tommy moved the cloth. He went back over it with an alcohol wipe and tried to ignore the tears streaking through the dirt on Tubbo’s face.

“You’re gonna have a sick scar, dude.”

“You jealous?” Tubbo asked, sniffing. 

“Sure,” Tommy replied. He wasn’t though. Once he turned eighteen, he was going to leave this shithole and take Tubbo with him. 

The process of cleaning and wrapping Tubbo’s arm was exhausting for both of them. When Tommy had bandaged it as best he could, he flopped down beside Tubbo. 

“How did that happen?”

“I was running -- tripped and got caught on a fence.”

“From the police?”

“From a kid just like me, better armed though. The police don’t give a shit”

Tommy sighed. He offered Tubbo some slightly-burned salty beans and they ate them together in amicable silence. He tried to convince Tubbo to stay overnight but the boy told him that he hadn’t reported back and that the boss probably thought he was dead. 

“Be careful,” he said as Tubbo trudged out the door. 

“When am I not?” Tubbo asked sarcastically. 

  
  


After that night, Tubbo started to show up more frequently. If he didn’t say anything about having to leave, Tommy would toss him a blanket and he’d sleep next to Tommy’s air mattress. They talked late into the night about things that didn’t really matter at all, going until one of them fell asleep mid-mumble. 

More often than not, Tubbo would show up with takeout or a bag of crisps. It wasn’t that Tommy didn’t eat at all. He was just forgetful. When Tubbo was there, he remembered to make soup or offer a granola bar. When Tubbo wasn’t there, he saved food and money. He wasn’t that hungry anyway. 

Was it forgetfulness or intention? He thought about that sometimes. Both, he decided. The envelope wasn’t going to gain any money so it would be better if he stretched food as long as possible before going back to the grocery store. It was true that he was less hungry these days.

Tubbo thought that he was far-too-skinny and not hungry enough, always trying to get him to eat more. Tommy was fine though. The nights seemed a little colder, but he was less lonely, less afraid. 

_ 3 million subs. _

“Look, Tommy,” Phil said. Of course they’d chosen him for the intervention; he was the closest to a father figure that Tommy had. Techno and Wilbur were on the call too, listening. “Something is wrong, and don’t try to convince me otherwise.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tommy said, holding his hands out defensively. They shook slightly but he didn’t think it showed on camera. 

It was very cold today, the winter air seeping through the shoddily constructed windowsill. He needed a space heater. 

“You’re always yawning, you look sick, you’re literally shivering right now. We’re worried about you.”

He grabbed a blanket and mumbled something about how his parents had messed up the thermostat. 

He was always tired because the other people in the building were constantly yelling or thudding, slightly sickly-looking because he probably wasn’t eating enough — having abandoned the pre-stream drinks altogether. But the sentence that got him was that the men had noticed that something was wrong, that they were worried. 

They’d noticed 

And that didn’t mean that he was about to tell them the real problem but maybe if he needed it, they would help him. It was reassuring. 

“You know how hard college is — well, not you Techno.” He smirked. “You didn’t even finish it.”

“I don’t know, maybe we need to have a conversation with your parents,” Techno said, laughing. They always tried to use the fact that he still lived with them against him. 

“No!” he shouted before he could stop himself. He hadn’t heard from them for over a month but the idea of them telling someone the truth nearly sent him into a panic. Tubbo was the only one that knew where he was, he realized.

“Touchy,” Techno muttered. Phil just looked at him with evident concern. Tommy shrugged. 

“Phil, you’ll be able to check up on him when we meet up! You know how teenagers are — he probably never sleeps,” Wilbur said, trying to diffuse the tension that he’d picked up on. 

“That’s right,” Tommy crowed. “No sleep.”

“By the way, are you going to be able to hang out with us?” Wilbur asked. 

Tommy’s thoughts raced. Could he hide the fact that he lived alone? He’d been avoiding their plan-making for weeks now, but he wanted nothing more than to see them.

“We could come pick you up and meet your parents!” 

Nope. 

“Sorry guys, they said no.”

“Aw c'mon they can’t be that strict. We just have to give ‘em a good old talking-to,” Techno said. 

“I can’t. I have to go now.”

He ended the call, catching a glance of their stunned faces at his hasty exit before turning off his computer. He hoped that he wasn’t going to lose them too, acting like this. 

The mattress protested as he fell backward and let out a long sigh, swearing when he saw that it must have been really cold; his breath hung in the air like smoke. 

He fell asleep like that, still shivering. 

It was Tubbo’s finger poking his cheek that woke him up, startling him enough to sit straight up, still blinking the sleep out of his eyes.

“Jeez, you were out cold,” Tubbo said. Tommy was still cold actually, his fingers and toes freezing. Behind his eyes, a headache pounded incessantly and his mind still felt cloudy from sleep. 

“I know I don’t usually come this early, sorry,” Tubbo said, sitting down on the mattress. “Here.”

He forced a breakfast burrito into Tommy’s hands. If it hadn’t felt so warm against his fingers, he might have tried harder to refuse it. 

“I just wanted to let you know that you might not hear from me for a little while. And I know you like to send me memes and shit but I need this --” He held up his scuffed phone, “-- to talk to the boss man so don’t text me unless it’s an emergency.”

“Is it a longer job, then?”

“Yeah. Just found out about it today.”

“I miss you already,” Tommy said softly.

“I miss you more.”

“Stay safe, okay?” Tommy said. Tubbo was already pushing himself up off the bed.

“When am I not safe?” he asked as he shut the door behind him. Tommy sighed — he’d been doing that a lot lately. His head hurt.

Too alert to fall back asleep, he passed the day by working on a homework packet and checking social media, also known as scrolling aimlessly through Twitter while resting his elbows on the sheath of math problems.

He took some painkillers to combat the still-pounding headache before he streamed but his usual enthusiasm was lacking and he ended it early, cutting off conversations with his friends who were probably confused with his behavior the night before. 

He stumbled to the bathroom, shivering, and brushed his teeth before returning to his room and collapsing into bed, falling asleep instantly. 

Opening his eyes the next morning felt harder than usual and when he lifted his head to check the time, the world seemed to swim in front of him. 

Compared to his burning forehead, his room felt icy and unforgiving and the cold air burned as he breathed -- or maybe that was just his throat aching. 

Fuck. Maybe it hadn’t been just a normal headache. 

He thought that if he let himself sleep a little longer, the chills and nausea might subside so he curled up under the blankets and willed the sensations to go away. He couldn’t afford to be sick. 

The next time he woke up it was obvious that he wasn’t going to get better. Sleeping had only made him more exhausted. He tried to grab a glass of water from beside the mattress but his fingers felt clumsy and unmaneuverable and he ended up dumping it on himself instead. For a second, it felt nice. Then it just felt cold, but he was too tired to change clothes. 

He scrabbled for his phone in the blankets and typed out a quick tweet about how his computer needed repairs and his daily streams were on hold for a couple of nights. At least, he tried to type that. He found it hard to focus on hitting the right letters so he had to keep backspacing and fixing words. He didn’t admit that he was sick because he didn’t want to worry anyone. He was fine. 

He ignored the messages that followed from his friends asking if he wanted to chat in one of their streams. 

Dragging a blanket behind him like a cape, he slumped to the ground next to his hotplate and dumped a can of chicken noodle soup in. That was what sick people were supposed to eat, right? 

Once it was hot, he tried to put a spoonful of it in his mouth and immediately gagged. He was starving but the idea of trying to eat it was repulsive with the way that his stomach churned. He left the rest of it behind in Pot and sluggishly climbed back into bed, hoping that tomorrow would be better. 

It wasn’t.

He didn’t even make it through the night before the coughing fits started. Each time that he tried to take a deep breath, his lungs protested and he’d be unable to stop the huge, wracking coughs that followed. He was exhausted but it seemed that every time he was on the brink of sleep, he would start coughing again. 

His body ached all over, opposing any sort of movement. When he dragged himself up to go to the bathroom, he nearly passed out, the edges of his vision going staticy. 

There was nothing that he could but lay in bed and hope to feel better, wait until one side of his pillow had cooled down before flipping it over to press against his hot face. He tried to scroll through Twitter to see if people were upset about him being gone -- and find bee photos to show Tubbo later -- but the words blurred in front of his eyes and he gave up

Tomorrow, he told himself, would be better. 

The next morning, he couldn’t move without searing pain in his head and coughing fits that left him gasping for air. He needed water but the task of getting it seemed insurmountable. Trying to stand up had just led to him collapsing on the floor, his legs too weak to support him. 

It was his breaking point. He was alone, scared, feverish. He hadn’t eaten for days and knew it was bad that he wasn’t hungry anymore. He couldn’t even fucking stand. Tubbo was too busy to take care of him and his parents didn’t care.

He found Wilbur’s contact and sent a message.

_ i need help  _

Then he realized that Wilbur was probably with Techno and Phil and that everything he’d been hiding from them was about to come bearing down on him. 

He ignored the stream of panicked messages that followed and sent the address of the apartment building. 

He thought about how he would have to walk down to let them into the building and knew that he couldn’t do it. Fuck. His finger rested over Tubbo’s contact. Was this an emergency? He decided that it was. 

_ emergency _

A call from Tubbo popped up on the screen seconds after he sent the text and he answered it with shaky fingers. 

“Tubs. Tubbo. I’m so sorry to interrupt your very important job, but I need a bit of a favor,” he slurred a bit, not sure if he was making any sense.

“Are you okay?” Tubbo sounded concerned and Tommy tried to answer but could only cough. 

“What do you need me to do?”

“You know how I always tell you not to pick the locks but you do it anyway? Well I need you to let some people into my flat for me.”

He started coughing again. 

“Why can’t you do it yourself?” Tubbo asked.

“Well, you see, I’m really sick. I can’t move,” he admitted in a raspy voice. 

“Jesus Tommy, I’m on my way. Can you stay on the call with me?”

“Mhm,” Tommy mumbled, not sure what he’d just agreed to do. He was so tired and his head hurt. 

He listened to Tubbo talking to another man before the sounds of the city -- cars, people, pigeons -- bled through the speaker. He wasn’t sure how long it was before Tubbo spoke again. He thought he might have fallen asleep for part of it.

“Three guys just got out of a car. They look worried,” Tubbo described them and Tommy smiled. They were worried about him. 

He heard Techno’s distant voice on the phone.

“Look Phil, I don’t know what’s goin’ on but I don’t think Tommy’s here.”

“Then we leave and find him somewhere else. Something’s wrong.” That must have been Wilbur. 

“Tell them to go with you,” Tommy said. 

He heard Tubbo say that he was there to take them to Tommy and Techno mutter something about following children into dark apartment buildings. There was a silence which he assumed was Tubbo picking the lock before Phil said something about how he’d rather not break-and-enter. Then the door opened and they hesitantly followed Tubbo inside. He could hear their footsteps in the stairwell. 

He smiled at the familiar clicking of Tubbo’s picks in the door and then it was opening and Tubbo appeared in front of him. 

“Stay there,” the boy said to the men in the hall, glaring at them before rushing to Tommy’s side. 

He gently brushed Tommy’s hair off his forehead. 

“You’re burning up.”

“I think I’m really sick,” Tommy mumbled.

Tubbo grabbed a water bottle from his backpack and tilted it so that Tommy could take a sip.

“Do you trust these guys? I don’t want to leave you but I’m on a run right now and I have to go soon.”

“Besides you, they’re the only people I trust.” Tommy sighed. “But I’ve been lying to them a lot. Will they be mad at me, Tubs?”

“At you? Not for very long,” Tubbo replied, rubbing Tommy’s back as another coughing fit started. “It’s all going to be okay.” 

“I saved a cute picture of a bee for you.”

“How about you call me when you’re feeling better and you can show me it.”

“Okay.”

Tubbo waved at Phil who was standing in the doorway, watching the interaction.

“I’ve got to go. He said that you would help him.”

Phil was about to say something when Tubbo cut in, “And I don’t trust you at all but I trust what he says. If you let him get hurt, you’ll have a lot more than just me coming at you.” He glared at the group of men, all much larger than him, and they seemed to shrink backward in his gaze. 

“We’re his friends,” Wilbur said, his hands held outwards in a placating gesture. 

“Some friends, leaving him here to starve and freeze and never once visiting. He’s my friend,” Tubbo muttered as he stalked towards the door.

“Stay safe, Tubs,” Tommy murmured, oblivious to the room’s tension.

“I’ll see you soon, Tommy,” Tubbo replied, and then he was gone, leaving Tommy alone with three men, disbelief evident on their faces. 

Phil looked on the verge of a breakdown, Wilbur and Techno looked frozen and unsure. Actually, Techno looked mad -- at him probably. If he’d just been a nice, normal kid he never would have annoyed his parents and this wouldn’t have happened.

He waited for them to say something, anything. 

“What the fuck is this, Tommy?” Techno finally spoke. Tommy wasn’t used to hearing him curse but Techno didn’t sound angry, not really. Just confused. 

“It’s my house,” Tommy said. “Bet I’m the youngest one of all of us to buy their own, right? I’m independent.”

And then he started to cough again and Wilbur sat down next to him and rubbed his back in small, circular motions like Tubbo had done. He leaned into the warmth of the other man. Wilbur was warm and he was so, so tired. He just wanted to go to sleep. 

“We’ll figure this out later. How long have you been sick?” Phil was doing his best to stay calm.

“Three days, I think,” Tommy said, his face pressed into Wilbur’s sweater

“We’re going to have to take you to the hospital, okay?”

“‘Kay, just don’t tell my parents.” He heard Phil sigh. 

He was barely conscious when he felt the strong arms of Techno picking him up and heard them grab his phone, search for his keys, and lock the door before going down the stairs.

“He shouldn’t be this light. Why is he so easy to carry?” Techno asked softly.

“I don’t know. I really don’t,” Phil replied. “But we’re going to figure this out and we’re going to fix it.”

The rocking motion of being carried lulled him to sleep and he let it wash over him. He was safe. 

The next couple of days passed in a blur of sterile hospital lights, IVs, and the soft commands to ‘eat this Tommy, tell us what you need, hold out your arm.’ One of the men was always in the room with him, holding his hand or stroking his hair. It was nice, and he almost wanted to stay in that state where they couldn’t really be mad at him. 

Then he was discharged from the hospital to get some rest -- medicated -- the verdict being that along with a particularly nasty case of the flu, he’d also been dehydrated and severely underweight. 

On the car ride home, he fell asleep with his head in Wilburs lap, listening to the soft voices of Techno and Phil in the front seat. 

“We’re not going to ask him about it, okay? Our job will be to help him and make him feel safe until he wants to.”

“What if they did somethin’ to him, Phil? It wasn’t right for him to be alone like that.”

“I know.”

He opened his eyes to the sun streaming through the window in a small bedroom, much nicer than his own flat. It was strange to roll over in a bed that didn’t protest his every move with air leaks. He was probably at Wilbur’s house where they’d planned to meet up; the man had bought a large one recently, ignoring Phil’s rant about money responsibility. 

Below him, he heard the sound of people in the kitchen, talking and laughing -- something that he wondered if he’d ever heard. The smell of bacon drifted into the room, preceding Wilbur who cracked open the door. Once he saw that Tommy was awake, he carried in a tray of food. 

“Hi Wilby,” Tommy said. His voice sounded croaky like a stupid frog. 

“Hey,” Wilbur said, handing him a fork. “How’re you feeling?”

“Never been better,” Tommy answered, mouth full of pancake. Then he decided that it was time he stopped lying to them. “Scratch that. I feel like shit.” 

Wilbur ruffled his hair. “Thought so. The doctor said you’d need a couple more days before you started to feel normal again.”

What was normal going to be like? Did normal mean going back to his empty, cold flat and being alone again? Did it mean talking to the police about why he’d run away? Going back to his parents? Tommy didn’t know if he wanted normal.

He sniffed and realized that he was going to cry, unable to stop the sobs that followed.

“Oh Tommy,” Wilbur pulled him into a hug and held him tightly. “It’s going to be alright, I promise.”

“Are you going to leave me?” 

“No.” He held Tommy out at arm's length and met his eyes. “If you think that we’re letting you go after all of this you’re an idiot.”

Somehow, Wilbur’s words only made him cry harder. 

“Sorry, you’re going to have to throw away your shirt. I’m getting it all snotty and shit.”

“Don’t be. Unlike you, I’ve got more than one.”

“Asshole.”

“Child.”

Once his tears slowed, Wilbur stood up to leave. 

“Will you stay, please?” He didn’t want to be annoying but being around other people had made him realize how much he missed it. 

“Of course.” Wilbur set the tray down by the door and perched on the edge of the bed, his hand resting on Tommy’s head and gently carding through his hair.

“Go to sleep, I’ll be right here.” 

And he stayed. When Tommy woke up again, Wilbur was slumped against the wall fast asleep. Techno opened the door once, probably to see what had happened to him. And when he and Phil came back with a sharpie and a camera, Tommy pretended to be asleep too. 

The markered-on mustache and eyebrows didn’t fade completely for days afterwards and were immortalized in tweets. Wilbur was mad at first, but his rage disappeared the second he saw Tommy laugh at him. 

They didn’t ask him about what had happened, though he could tell they were itching to know. 

Instead, they watched movies --

“Don’t tell me we’re watching Up again.”

\-- cooked extravagant meals that Tommy was guilt-tripped into eating --

“I don’t care that you don’t feel hungry, I put my heart into these scones for you.”

\-- and somehow managed to kidnap Tubbo off the streets and bring him back to the house as a surprise --

“TUBBO!”

“TOMMY!”

Wilbur convinced him to aid in his revenge on Techno, a plot involving a bowl of semi-permanent neon-pink dye and a lot of stealth. They completed it minutes before Techo’s alarm went off. 

Tommy would never forget the moment when Techno came stumbling down the stairs to use the shower without looking at himself in the mirror and the echoing yell that came from the bathroom when he saw the pink dye dripping onto the floor. 

It was the happiest he’d been for what seemed like years, but he couldn’t get rid of the unease that came with the fact that they didn’t know the truth, that they probably thought his parents had done something bad. He knew that he would have to explain it eventually but they’d been dancing around the topic for so long that he didn’t know how.

The chance would come enough.

He was curled between Techno and Phil on the couch while the credits of a movie rolled in the nearly-dark room, almost asleep. They must have thought that he was. 

“Phil,” Techno said.

“I already know what you’re going to ask and the answer is no.”

“It’s been days. If he was going to tell us on his own he would have by now.”

“And it doesn’t matter if it takes another week before he says something about it, you’re not going to ask.”

“They didn’t do anything bad to me, alright?” Tommy said into the pillow, his voice muffled. “I think you’ve started to think of them as bad people when it was more my fault than anything. I’ve only created problems for everyone,” he continued bitterly.

There was a startled silence in which they realized that he’d been listening. 

“Tommy,” said Wilbur quietly. “I don’t really care what you say to try and defend them. You’re seventeen. You’re just a kid and we found you so sick that you couldn’t move.” His voice cracked slightly. “You could have fucking died alone.”

“I was alone because I was selfish.” He waited for them to reply, but they didn’t say anything

“They would spend my money on all of these things like cars and vacations and act like it was my decision. It made me upset and in the end I was so annoying that I could only stay in the house if I paid the bills too.” Phil’s face had hardened from a neutral expression to one of anger. 

“And when I finally told them that I didn’t want them to use me like that anymore, my dad hit me.”

“He did what?” Techno growled. Phil reached over to touch his shoulder and was pushed away. “You think that it’s okay for your father to hit you? You think that this is your fault?”

“It was just one time! And none of this would have happened if I was a better son.”

“It doesn’t matter that it only happened once Tommy,” Phil said softly. “And children are under no obligation to provide for their parents in that way. Expressing your thoughts shouldn’t have gotten you hurt.”

“I didn’t even give them another chance,” Tommy said. “I’d started packing before they even left on holiday.”

“They didn’t deserve a second chance,” Techno muttered. 

“Their holiday?” asked Wilbur. “That was months ago.” 

“Do you remember when I got the new greenscreen for my vids?” They nodded.

“That’s when I moved. Asked a bunch of druggies on the street where I could find a flat since I was too young to rent a real one.”

“Jesus christ,” Phil said, dropping his head into his hands. “Miracle you didn’t get shot before you got sick. You really couldn’t have asked one of us for a place to stay?”

Tommy stared down at his twisting, fidgety hands. “It still feels so stupid, like if I’d been more reasonable it wouldn’t have happened. I didn’t think I would be able to explain it to you, or I would try and you would make me go back. And I didn’t want to be a burden but it seems that I just delayed that.” He let out a small, self-deprecating laugh. 

“Believe me when I say that you’ve never been a burden to us,” Phil said. “We’re your friends and we care about you. We want to help so don’t think that you’re forcing it on us.”

“Thanks, Dadza,” Tommy sniffed and hoped that they ignored his teary eyes.

“What have you been living off of? Are they still on your account?” Techno asked, slightly oblivious to the emotional edge of the exchange.

“I took the biggest withdrawal I could and then froze it. Was planning to live off that until I turned eighteen,” Tommy admitted.

“We’re all adults here, so one of us can sign off on it for you.”

Tommy hadn’t thought of that. 

“By the way, can I get your mom’s phone number?” Phil asked.

“What are you going to say?” 

“I just want to … talk to her. Have them removed from your account and all.” His voice was sharp but Tommy couldn’t bring himself to care. He slowly read off the numbers to Phil, a phone he’d left unblocked but hadn’t gotten a call from since the night he ran away.

Phil stood up and went into a bedroom, closing the door behind him. And when muffled, angry yelling started to leak through the walls, Wilbur retrieved his guitar and played for them so that no matter how Tommy strained his ears, he couldn’t hear what Phil was saying. He took a steadying deep breath and let himself relax into the couch, focusing on Wilbur’s voice alone. 

His eyes had nearly slipped shut when he felt Techno’s arms scoop him up.

“Stop carrying me like I’m a baby,” he mumbled.

“You’re a child.”

“We’re the same height!”

“Fine. You’re an invalid, then.”

He’d been complaining as a joke, it was nice to be held by someone. 

“I still want to deck your dad, you know,” Techno muttered as he unceremoniously dropped Tommy onto his bed.

“I know. And you’re not allowed to,” Tommy said. It was hard to dissuade them from hating his parents. Techno glared at him.

“Actually though, there is something that you can do for me.”

And that was how Techno found himself an accomplice to another one of Tommy’s plans a couple of days later, striding behind him as they approached a dirty, red door in a nondescript alleyway. 

“Remember, your job is just to stand behind me and look scary,” Tommy reminded him. “Also, make sure no one mugs me.” In his pocket was a thick envelope of notes that he’d withdrawn from the bank as soon as Phil had helped him fix his account. Techno wasn’t quite sure what the rest of the plan consisted of.

The wave of cigarette smoke that rushed through the door when Tommy pushed it open had become familiar to him -- his flat neighbors were all religious smokers -- but left Techno wrinkling his nose in disgust.

The man that sat in a desk across from them was huge, maybe the height of Tommy but broad-shouldered and large where the boy was skinny and long-limbed. It was easy to see how people were threatened by him. Techno plastered on a menacing expression and stood at Tommy’s shoulder with his arms crossed.

“Hullo, Big G,” Tommy said.

The man grunted what appeared to be a greeting. 

“How much does Tubbo owe you?”

“What?” 

“How much money does Tubbo owe you?” Tommy repeated. 

“Fuck if I know, that kid’s been around here wracking up debt since I found him in an alley years ago.”

“Well he’s been working for you since then too, how much can he possibly owe?” 

“What, you going to pay it off or something?” the man asked jokingly. Tommy raised his eyebrows and tilted his head. 

“Shit, really?” His eyes widened, the first time Tommy had seen him express any emotion. “I don’t know, two thousand --” He glanced at Tommy’s clean clothes and new coat “-- no, four thousand--”

Techno cleared his throat and reminded the man that he was still there. His pink hair did nothing to detract from his intimidating stature -- made him seem more confident, if anything. He saw the man wince slightly. 

“-- two thousand pounds then,” Big G muttered. Techno nodded. “By the way, your three months rent is almost up, are you going to pay for the next one too?”

A flicker of uncertainty passed over Tommy’s face and he opened his mouth to say something but Techno set his hand on Tommy’s shoulder and interrupted.

“No, he’s not.” 

Tommy grinned as he counted out the banknotes -- he’d brought almost twice as much, just in case -- while Techno’s voice echoed through his head.  _ Not going back, not going back, not going back.  _ They weren’t going to make him leave. 

“If I give you this, he’s free from you?” Tommy asked.

“Yes,” said the large man, his eyes glinting with greed, though Tommy knew he had the better end of the deal.

He handed over the money, walked out the door, and texted Tubbo, telling him to come over to Wilbur’s house.

“You know how Wilbur bought his huge fucking house for no reason and there’s a bunch of extra bedrooms?” he asked.

“Don’t tell me you’re invitin’ another kid to live there.”

“Hey, everyone’s allowed to feel bad for me and treat me like I’m fragile but that doesn’t mean I won’t occasionally use it to my advantage,” Tommy said, smirking. 

“What an abuse of our kindness,” Techno said with a small, theatrical gasp. He drove Tommy back to the house where they were faced with the task of explaining how Tommy had both paid off a gang boss and invited one of its ex-members to live with him. 

“He’s my emotional support Tubbo!” Tommy yelled, his arms around the other boy’s shoulders. “You can’t take him away!” 

They didn’t plan to. It was the first time they’d seen an emergence of Tommy’s old personality -- the mischievous and stubborn thing that it was. 

And if more nights than not, they heard Tubbo walking through the hallway to Tommy’s room, dragging a blanket, they didn’t say anything about it. His favorite place to sleep was curled up on the ground next to Tommy’s bed. After a couple of nights spent worrying about his back, Wilbur conspicuously placed a camping mattress there. 

Without fanfare, everything from his old flat appeared in the living room of Wilbur’s house one day, packed in boxes that Techno and Phil carried in from the car. He exclaimed as he found Pot, parading into the kitchen to show it off and promising that he was going to make salty beans. He did end up cooking them and everyone but Tubbo -- who ate his in a matter of minutes -- grimaced and barely managed to pretend that they liked them. 

Phil managed to enroll Tubbo in the same school as Tommy. Tommy restarted his streams -- they’d been postponed with a series of excuses from technology failure to illness -- with the green screen as a background, wanting to hold off on the truth for a little longer. Most of his fans were just happy he was back. 

Wilbur took him and Tubbo shopping for decorations and posters to fill their empty rooms and it was reassuring because with each tack that he put in the wall and knick-knack he placed on the shelf by his desk, his life there felt more permanent. And if he still wasn’t sure, all he had to do was go to Wilbur and ask to hear the words: ‘you can stay as long as you want, you’re not a burden, we love you.’ Each time Wilbur repeated it, Tommy believed it more. 

Tubbo was cautious at first but bit by bit, he started to depend on Tommy less, asking Wilbur to teach him how to play the guitar or talking to Techno about his favorite novel. Tommy did his best to avoid interrupting these interactions, not wanting to take them from Tubbo. Hearing his laugh from some distant room in the house always made Tommy smile.

One day, doing homework at the table while Wilbur cooked dinner, Tommy saw Techno come in and sit at the counter, looking nervous and fidgety. It wasn’t that he’d meant to eavesdrop, his music cue just happened to end at that minute and he didn’t make any effort to find a new song or say anything. 

Techno’s hair dye should have faded by now, but it seemed more vibrant than it had been the day before. Tommy smiled as he completed another problem. If Tech had liked the color enough to re-dye it, Wilbur’s revenge had obviously failed. 

“My flight home leaves in three days.”

From his spot at the table, he saw Wilbur frown without turning around.

Techno had commandeered a room in Wilbur’s house like Tommy and Tubbo, bringing his equipment for streaming since the vacation they’d planned had been long in the first place. His hair products -- Tommy’d never known a man with hair as long as Techno -- sat in the shower. His books were strewn across the coffee table in the living room, his jackets and shoes in the entryway. 

At some point, Phil had returned to his house, though he still came over often enough. But Techno, he was a constant. Tommy realized that he didn’t want him to leave, that he was a part of the place he’d started to think of as home with his sarcastic commentary and awkward comfort.

“And I uh-- I really -- I really liked stayin’ here. I -- I live alone in America, y’know,” Techno stumbled over his words. Usually, he was nothing less than eloquent. Wilbur continued to stir the pan on the stove but nodded, encouraging Techno to continue.

“And my neighbors and people I’ve tried to make friends with, they don’t really get it -- streamin’ I mean. And it’s hard to be alone and sit on the computer all day and talk to people there instead of in real life. And I -- uh -- I -- I wanted to ask if --”

“If I told you that the answer to your question was going to be yes, would you stop stalling?” Wilbur asked gently. Tommy wasn’t quite sure he was following the conversation.

“I’m not stalling! What makes you think that I’m even askin’ you a question -- maybe I’m just trying to have a conversation here!” Techno said defensively, his neck flushing. 

“Yes, Tech, you can live here,” Wilbur said, laughing. “To be honest I kind of forgot that you weren’t until you said something about flying back to the states.”

Techno let out a long, relieved sigh. “I’m glad that you saw that coming because I was plannin' to drag that out a lot longer, had a whole speech written with the benefits to lettin’ me stay.”

“You don’t need to prove anything,” Wilbur said, smiling. “I think that we’ve become something of a little family.”

“A family,” Techno repeated. “Yeah.”

Tommy beamed furiously down at his equations and when he glanced up, Wilbur winked at him. 

“I realized a couple of days ago that my house in America was just a house, that in my head I’d never thought of it as anything else. And when I started callin’ this place ‘home’ instead, it was hard to think about going back.”

Tommy gave up the pretense of homework and stood and wrapping his arms around Techno in a tight hug. He could tell that Techno didn’t really know how to respond by the way that he tensed and didn’t say anything. Then Tommy released him and wandered over to what Wilbur was cooking to steal a piece of fried vegetable and burn his tongue, Tech still staring at him.

“I’m glad that you’re staying,” Tommy said.

“Me too,” Techo said quietly, before muttering something about needing to find someone to ship his stuff from America and exiting the room, his face red.

“What do you think, Tommy? Is this your home too?” Wilbur asked, swatting his hand away as he tried to steal a piece of chicken.

“Yeah, Wilby. I think that I’m home now.”

And this time, he meant it.

**Author's Note:**

> to the people that made it to the end: thank you so much for reading!! I hope you enjoyed the fic. 
> 
> come yell at me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/ghostbandaids), just made an acc and i'll be a devoted moot 4ever if u follow me
> 
> if you have any feedback or extra time, I'd love to hear what you thought about it in the comments!


End file.
